In the movies, when the main character – the hero- got shot, regardless of where it was on their body, they would always, beyond reason, manage to pull themselves right back up and proceed to fight off the enemy. Crawling to shaky legs, they would conjure up some witty, iconic retort, and inevitably emerge the victor.
Growing up, Clay had always perceived that ability to be thanks to the adrenaline coursing through their veins due to the threat. Adrenaline, as he was lead to believe, could grant man or woman vast strength and numbed any pain so that they could flee or fight themselves away from the situation. It was like a drug of sorts, he would say, eyes glued in unrestrained fascination as the man with two gunshot wounds to the chest stood once more to eventually win the match, and he was right, at least partially.
Now, however, he called absolute bullshit. There was no goddamn way someone could jump right back up from the pain that coincided with a bullet wound, that is, if he could use the nearly numbing pain raising through his side as a valid reference point.
He definitely had a bone to pick with Hollywood producers for their unrealistic expectations, although he figured that now really wasn't the time to mentally scold directors. Instead the blood pooling by his side was more than likely a more valid source of concern, especially considering the fact that it was all his.
I mean, Clay didn't know much about blood and the amount contained in the human body, but man that looked like a little too much for comfort, a thought that was only validated by the frantic, dark features staring down at him with a look lingering between sheer anger and concern.
It was a funny look, he thinks, and he kind of wishes his eyes weren't so blurry so that he could acknowledge it better, which is probably weird, considering the fact that there was a pretty good chance that he was dying and all.
The mental state it left him in, on the other hand, wasn't all that bad. He means, it hurt like a bitch, as one would assume getting shot would feel, however it wasn't necessarily fear that blossomed in his chest as much as it was shock and a bizarre sense of peace.
Sure there was no way in hell he was going to be able to stand, or even sit up for that matter, and his sides throbbed to a degree that was beyond uncomfortable, and – oh, Tony's speaking to him, he almost missed that.
"Shit, Clay! Clay, stay with me, bud! Clay – Dammit, you fucking idiot…"
"Hey…" For a moment the taller boy isn't certain who is more surprised by the sudden appearance of his voice in all its croaky, cracked glory, "In-Insult to Injury. N-Not cool man…"
A soft, wheeze of a chuckle echoed from Clay after his teasing remark, the sheer force of will it took to voice his attempt at making coherent sentences frightening him to a terrifying degree. So he made a joke, a silly, useless joke that didn't appear to strike Tony as even remotely funny, which really was too bad. He thought it was pretty good coming from a man that might be dying.
So much for his witty hero line – man, that shit was harder to think up than some people think.
"Dammit Clay… Why the hell did you do that?!"
Why? Well, looking back on it, the taller boy figured that that was a difficult question to answer on a good day. When he didn't feel like all the wind had been knocked from his chest and he was just kind of floating there on the library floor, getting lectured by an angry Hispanic man.
It had all technically started that morning, although, judging by the gun now laying listlessly just a few yards beyond his prone form, Clay figured that, realistically, this all begun a long time ago. Maybe even before the tapes, before Hannah, before everything, though really, who could say for sure?
Maybe Tyler, but he's too far gone now to be of any assistance to the police who's near bye sirens spilt his head in two. Damn, those bastards were loud when they wanted to be, weren't they? Loud and late to offer them any real assistance from the young, misunderstood boy with a gun and eyes blazing with an intent to avenge.
But, specifics aside, he was temporarily reminded of Tony's inquiry as a soft, warm drop of water plopping on his face startled him from his muddled thoughts, invoking blue eyes to drift from the ceiling to instead regard the shorter male.
Was that a tear? Was Tony crying for him?
Well that was certainly a shame; it wasn't necessary. He was fine! Or, at least, as fine as a teen with a bullet hole in his side could be.
Alright, so maybe he really wasn't fine, but it who really was anymore?
And who would have known what Tyler was planning? That he had been so deeply disturbed by this school that he would go so far as to initiate a shooting?
Talk about missing signs of suicide in others such as Alex; they had also, apparently, managed to completely look past the murderous intent that, now that Clay reflected on it, had been evident in Tyler's behavior for at least a few weeks.
Huh, so much for everyone treating each other better. Damn, high school really sucked. At this point he should write a book, but then again he can't really feel his fingers anymore either. Kinda needed those to write a novel.
How it was that they had gotten into this situation, Clay suddenly recalls, temporarily forgetting the initial line of thought that had been voiced from the now frantic Tony.
Well, that was a pretty long story, one that he really only knew a bit about himself, as it certainly was not him that pulled that trigger, but he figured he would rehash what he himself was aware of anyway.
Now, if only he could keep his muddled thoughts together long enough to explain.
The details themselves were hazy, as were the words now filling the room as first responders seemed to finally arrive.
It's about time. I mean, call him impatient, but he didn't really want to die quite yet, so some hustling would be appreciated.
Though, as his eyelids begin to droop and Tony's voice raises an octave in some foreign demand, Clay wonders if they really aren't too late already.
But then again, maybe he deserved this. He was already too late to right the wrong he had dealt to Tyler, so maybe this was karma's way of repaying him for all those moments of self-imposed justice.
Either way, his mind still raced in an attempt to comprehend and silently respond to the shorter boy's question. Why did he do that? What drove Tyler to act as he did?
Well, those were both questions for another time, he decided, as he finally allowed his eyes to flutter shut as darkness, the imagined curtains closing on the play of his life – unless he really did somehow manage to pull through his one- shielded his vision and froze his body.
But, with his last fleeting thoughts, Clay figured he could determine at least eight reasons why Tyler did what he did.
